Monday, December 27, 2010

An open letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley,

Hey girlfriend.  How've you been?  I see you are still making music.  That's nice.  You've always liked the whole music thing, right?  Look, Mile-igator.  We need to talk.  It's just that...I don't know if we can keep doing this.

Don't get me wrong, I've been nothing short of a devoted fan.  In the not so distant past, my favorite TV show was Hannah Montana.  I had a Hannah Montana sleeping bag that lit up whenever it was touched.  I even had socks with your face on them.  Do you understand?  I wore your face on my feet every single day.  So I want you to know that this isn't about your past.  Really.  It's not.

I just think we've gone our separate ways, you know?  You smoke a bong and I'm not even entirely sure what a bong is.  You are really good at hip thrusting and I'm fairly positive that if I ever tried to pull off one of your dance moves, I would injure myself horribly.  You like to wear things that make your boobs look awesome.  I like to wear Star Wars shirts.  Do you see what I'm getting at here?  We're just different people, Mile-inator.

I'm really sorry, honest.  I wanna back you up here, but I don't know where to start.  When you got all naked sexy sheet-tastic for Vanity Fair, I defended you.  I figured that everyone is entitled to their own choices, even a preteen icon.  I still think that, Miley.  I do. 

When you suddenly popped up all over the internet in your underwear, I felt bad for you.  I felt bad that the media would inevitably bombard you with criticism and meanness.  I thought you probably would be really upset.  I was totes on your side, Miles.

And heaven knows that when your new music video came out and I saw you shakin' your thaaaang and crooning about how you simply cannot be tamed, I said, "Wow.  That girl does NOT want to be tamed.  Huh."  I might have shaken my head in disappointment, Miley, but I didn't condemn.  I still don't condemn.  I want you to know that.

Wow.  Is this as hard for you as it is for me?  Because this is really hard for me. 

Now, there's the bong video.  And there's that lap dance you gave your director.  Also, all that sexy-time dancing and sexy-sexy-time outfits.  I'm not really diggin' it, Miley.  Not at all.  But the real truth, the reason that we are totally over, isn't so much about any of that. The real reason is so much deeper.  So much more painful.  It's...well, it's your legs.

CURSE YOU, Miley!  Curse you and your hot, long legs!  Why?!?!  Why must I be tortured with jealousy every time I see them?  They look freaking AWESOME in heels.  They make your skirts and dresses incredible.  I HATE YOUR LEGS.  SO MUCH.  XOMGsfWIEAHOGIWIH!@@!!!!

I'm glad we had this talk.


Saturday, December 25, 2010

Megan tries to function normally and set up her Christmas present: part one

Today I got a camera for Christmas because sometimes I want to take pictures to show you people what the heck I'm talking about instead of drawing something that we all could have lived without seeing EVERY TIME.  Now I'm going to attempt to set up my camera and make it all operational and stuff.  And because I’m positive that I will either irreparably damage it or some sort of hilarity will ensue, I will be live-blogging the experience!   It will probably be totally boring.

PART ONE: This Is An Ominous Title About A Camera

-I just opened the box.  There are 2,334 parts in here.  Approximately.  Hopefully the instructions say “lose 2,323 of the parts within the first 3 minutes of opening the box.”

-…The camera is wrapped in plastic.  The plastic is much more difficult to open than one would generally expect.  Even for me.

-Okay…so there are two cd’s here…I think one is like a guide?  Yeah?  And there’s a paper guide?  Freak, Nikon.  Way to waste resources.  I’m gonna go with the paper issue because I hate trees and also I will probably ruin the CD.

-Obviously these set up instructions were made with me in mind.  Step one: “Take the camera out of the box.”

-I will now attempt to “attach the camera strap.”  SUCCESS!  I am a camera wizard!!!

-Hmmm.  What does “32MB “ mean?

-I’m supposed to “open the battery chamber” which sounds funny because I distinctly feel like this is the Chamber of Secrets, considering the fact that I cannot locate the battery chamber.  Maybe I have to speak parseltongue.

-Look at that.  The battery chamber is labeled, “battery.”  Weird.

-“Insert the supplied battery”=oh crap.  I lost it.  It is not here, unless it is wire shaped and/or is made out of the User's Manual.  Stupid NIKON!

-Found the battery.  It was in the box.

-Inserting this battery will “damage the camera” if I do it wrong in any way.  Also I must use the edge of the battery to push the orange battery latch in the direction indicated by the arrow and fully insert the battery so that it locks into place…..hahaha my camera is screwed.

-That was easier than expected.  Also, I liked the orange latch.  It was very orange.  CAMERA WIZARD, over here!

-It came with a memory card that is water, temperature, shock and x-ray proof.  At first I was tempted to say, “hey, don’t you think you’re going overboard on the protection factor?” and then I thought about the fact that I own this memory card and suddenly it seems more reasonable.  In fact, they should have also made it impact proof and punch proof, because sometimes I get frustrated and lash out.  Sorry, memory card.

-On the back of the memory card package there is an explanation in Portuguese and I was all, “HEY I SPEAK THAT LANGUAGE, YES, SKILL TIME!” but then I remembered that I didn’t even understand the English version.  Oh.  Right.

-…I have to get scissors to open this stupid thing?  Whatever.  I don’t mind doing all the work.  Also I didn’t even just cut myself with the scissors which is a minor miracle because I have sustained two cuts on the knuckle of my left ring finger so far today in different present-opening incidents.  One involved a swiss army knife.  Poor left ring finger. 

-It says to close the door of the battery chamber, but the door doesn’t close.  It just swings out on its stupid little springs.  STOP LYING TO ME, USER’S MANUAL.

-Oh.  There’s a button for that.  It occurs to me at this point that many may suspect that my inadequacy is feigned.  Au contraire.  I really am this inadequate.  So take that.

-“Use the supplied Charging AC Adapter EH-68P and USB Cable UC-E6 to charge the supplied Rechargeable Li-ion Battery EN-EL 10 while it is in the camera.”  Oh.  Okay, I’ll do that.

-Hahahaha my battery is named “Li-ion.”  I bet it has a stutter.  My poor, challenged battery.

-Now I’m supposed to stick a plug adapter onto the Charging AC Adapter, which is inexplicably capitalized.

-The instructions say that if I am in Argentina, the plug adapter is not supplied.  Why?  I’M A PERSON TOO, NIKON.  Not that I’m in Argentina, but what if I were?  WHAT IF I WERE.

-Hmm.  All these plastic wrapped parts appear to be about the same.  Hmmmmmmm.  Hmmmmmmmmm.  I wonder if there was no snow outside this Christmas because the Universe was giving me a gift.  Maybe it wants to be friends.

-No, don't be stupid, self.

-Now, I can’t be positive because I’m an idiot, but I think I’m missing a piece.  Maybe Santa bought me this camera in Argentina.  I knew this would come up.

-Did I just have a stroke?  Where is that dumb plug adapter?  I CHECKED THE BOX.  DON’T TELL ME TO CHECK THE BOX.  IT’S NOT IN THERE.

-I did NOT lose it.  I know I didn’t lose it because just because ALRIGHT?!?!

-I can only conclude that my camera was purchased in Argentina.  The Argentina instructions say to move on.  Does this mean that I’m a citizen now?  Do I have to learn Spanish?

-So…out of this pile of wires I now need to locate the wire that will connect my half-formed chargy thingy to the camera part of the camera via a little hole in the camera thing.  WIZARD!

-Why is one wire connected to yellow and white things?  Do they plug into the TV?  Are they for the Nintendo 64?  I’m so confused.  NIKON YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE.

-Why is everything labeled with numbers and random letters, by the way?  Instead of telling me to connect “EH-68P and USB Cable UC-E6” to “Li-ion Battery EN-EL 10” it should just tell me to connect Ralph the Dragon, Jermaine Stevens, and Martin Van Buren.  I would totally remember that and I would also probably grow more attached to my camera and also people would relate to Nikon’s cameras better and sales would boom.  Everyone wins.  Nikon should hire me.

-Ha!  I totes connected this all up.  Probably with the wrong wire.  Whatever.  I have one word: WIZARD!

-Huh.  The manual says that I need to charge the battery for three hours.  Well the way I see it I have three options: 1. Stay up for three hours and then probably three more as I attempt to figure the rest of this crap out, 2. Go to sleep and finish this tomorrow in a part two installment, 3. Wait for the Nikon fairy to come and charge my battery for me.  I choose option 2.  WIZARD!

-I don't really even remember what the context is for "WIZARD!" anymore.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Finals and why they are ruining everything for the world

Hi.  Normally I would try to post.  Really.  But there's this thing about college and it's called Finals Week and it wears a pointy hat and cackles darkly at every college student in the world.  For the time being, Finals Week is my master.  That means that I have nothing for you.  Except apologies and this drawing of The Muffin of Shame.

I still feel like I haven't really made it up to you.  What can I do?  Hire a monkey to love you forever?  Summon a rainbow to follow you wherever your darling feet trod? Tap dance with feeling?  I just don't know.

How about another drawing?


Anyway, I should be back to posting ridiculous rants about crap that no one cares about soon enough.  Please love me in my absence.  It makes me feel like a real woman.

...Clearly I need more sleep.

Comment that I completely relate with: "Finals are the devil's quizzes. Just like stairs are the devil's hills." -Nadia Murti

Friday, December 10, 2010

I am going to be killed by a pile of snow. Probably very soon.

Congratulations, my friends.  Since you read my blog, you are about to be treated to 4 months of me whining about the snow and how horrible it is and how much I hate it and how it is an attempt by the Universe to kill me.  Which it is.  I KNOW IT.

Here in Utah, Winter can last for half of the year.  HALF OF THE YEAR.  If the year has two parts, Winter is one of those parts.  I know, I know.  "MEGAN TRY LIVING IN MONTANA, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT COLD IS!!!"  Yes I do.  I don't live in Montana because if I did I would be dead.  And that's where my logic ends.

Anyway, it was snowing for a while up at campus.  Then, miraculously, it stopped!  I have been known to weep bitterly when I see the first snowfall of the year (hint:every single year) so when it stopped it felt like Christmas had come early and I was already enjoying the unicorn that I KNOW is waiting for me under the tree.  (I shook the present that looked like a book.  It sounded like a unicorn, or a book.  I'm betting it's a unicorn, though.  A unicorn with a monocle that will breathe glitter into my oatmeal.  I don't like oatmeal, but if I did, my unicorn would breathe glitter into it, cause he's a nice guy like that.)

Over the next few days, all of the snow melted because the sun was being awesome.  However, a few days before, some boys had made a snowman.  A big, huge snowman.  I took pleasure in watching this snowman die tragically.  Is that cruel?  I don't know.  I just know that, "DIE, Frosty, DIE!!" has become my new mantra.

Soon, all the snow had disappeared except for a big pile of half-melted snow where the snowman used to be:

It won't go away.  And it's mocking me.  And it hates me.  It's like the Universe just wants to make sure that I know that the battle isn't over.  Normally I would say "bring it on, UNIVERSE!" but now I'm scared that a slush pile monster is going to devour me when I least expect it.


Truest comment: "I think anyone who says they like/love Winter, doesn't really know what they mean by that. Winter is cold, dark, wet, lifeless and cruel. What they like is hot chocolate, cuddling cause "It'll make us warmer" skiing, snowboarding, getting WARM by the fire and the fact that Christmas must be getting close. You only like the snow if you're wearing five hoodies and A coat that's so thick you can't bend your arms. Too often do we misinterpret what it is we actually want."-leaflock

Monday, December 6, 2010

...Should I be upset?

I received this comment from "anonymous" today (I edited the bad word.  WHOOO for pretension!):

"F*** you and everyone who comments on this. Your blogs are pretentious and, although it is clear you are joking, it is not funny in the least. You have a very immature sense of humor and I despise you more than anybody could despise anything. Ever."

My initial response was disbelief, as I wondered why, in the same sentence, anonymous insults both me and him/ know...he/she commented on "this."

Then I laughed.

Anonymous, do you really despise me more than anything ever?  Wanna know things that I despise?
1. Genocide
2. Domestic abuse
3. Being chased by geese
4. Murder
5. Road maps
6. Any maps
7. Murder again

This clearly calls for another award.

 Anonymous, don't feel bad.  I made one for you too:

I will literally give you that hug.  No, really.  I'm being serious.  Why don't you email me and we'll talk it out, huh?  Then there can be rainbows and butterflies and we can all learn to respect each other and enjoy each other and have enough decency not to despise/insult total strangers just because some people don't like unicorns jokes and others do. 

Differences, kids.  They make us special.

P.S. Just so we're all clear, insulting me is just fine.  But your comments will be marked as spam and I might write an immature and pretentious post about it.  "But Megan, FREE SPEECH!  You just don't want to deal with anyone who disagrees!"

Um, duh.  This is MY blog.  Free speech doesn't apply so much.  Why would I let anyone say icky things about me and my readers?  It's insulting to the very concepts of acceptance and free speech.  If you want to disagree with me respectfully, knock yourself out.  Otherwise, let me reiterate a point: IT'S MY BLOG, I DO WHAT I WANT!  HAHAHA!

Excerpts from my journal part 1

Before I started blogging regularly, I kept a journal.  But not a real journal, per se, more like a book consisting of every stray, unintelligible, crazy, erratic, nonsensical thought that ever bounced around in my brain.  In school, if I didn't have my journal I would FREAK OUT because WHERE WILL I WRITE ABOUT THE COMPARATIVE QUALITIES OF K$SHA AND LADY GAGAWHEREIASKYOU!?!?!?!?  Once, I forgot it and spent all of my theater class filling up an entire white erase board with the random mind-spewage that could not be contained.  My friend Amber took pictures.  I'll ask for them.  THEN YOU WILL SEE HOW WEIRD I REALLY AM.

But you're about to anyway:

March 31, 2010

-You know how sometimes you have those days when you wake up and you're all, "um, I don't want to go to U.S. government," so you go back to bed and wake up half an hour later and think, "I don't really want to go to biology," so you go back to sleep but then you realize you forgot to call Morgan, so you do and then she laughs at you for being so lame, and you laugh too, and then you go back to bed, and later you wake up and finally shower, but all you really feel like doing is acting out a zombie apocalypse on facebook?  Yeah.  I'm having one of those days.

Friday, April 23, 2010

-I assume that you make socially awkward comments because you're obsessed with me.
-No matter how many times I tell myself I'm not going to spill, I always spill.

May 3, 2010

-Fruit salad:  Banana is the gross, awkward second cousin that you include so that he doesn't feel bad, but you feel bad, cause he smells.  Pineapple is the really loud, fat, obnoxious aunt.  You're trying to enjoy raspberry or make out with your boyfriend strawberry, and Aunt Pineapple comes up to you and starts laughing really loudly and yelling about childbirth and how her bunions hurt.  So yeah.  Fruit salad is like an awkward family reunion.  You could say that.

-K$sha VERSUS Lady Gaga:

Okay, first of all, K$sha spells her name like an idiot.

1. Dinner with Kesha would probably end like this: ", I'll take you home, put down the vodka...Hey put your shirt back on! you sure can vomit." 
Lady Gaga would probably talk about interesting things like...well I don't know.  Maybe I'll just talk about Lady Gaga herself.

2. Kesha would probably win in a fight, assuming she wasn't drunk.
Lady Gaga could outdance Kesha any day of the week.  And she'd probably drive drunk Kesha home.

3. A drunk Kesha video game would be so awesome.
A Lady Gaga video game would probably just be a lot of hip thrusting.

4. "Your Love is My Drug" is kind of catchy.
Lady Gaga has about 100,025 zillion dollars worth of better songs, in comparison.

5. I wouldn't want to meet Kesha.  I just want to shamefully listen to one or two of her jams where no one will find out.
Meeting Lady Gaga would be scary.  But awesome.

May 4, 2010
-Apparently, it's Ke-dollarsign-ha.  Not K-dollarsign-sha.  So Ke$ha.  Not K$sha....Whatever.  She spells it like an idiot.  I don't feel bad.  YOU DON'T OWN ME, K$SHA!

May 8, 2010
-Would the world be better, worse, or neutral if I never cleaned my room?

May 10, 2010
-This is just like the time I asked--nay, DEMANDED that my mother extend my curfew.  In that this also did not go well.

-And at this point I'm all, whatever.  Just give me the freakin' alkaseltzer.

-I'm not sure how alkaseltzer would help in this situation, but it sounds up to the task.

-I realize that my desk wold be more functional if I cleaned it.  But when crap covers every surface in my room--well, that really speaks to me.

-Tyler just informed me that "crap" is a swear word in England.  It feels like my birthday.

May 16, 2010

-You lack life-blood.

May 25 (ish. ?) 2010

-Yeah, who needs to keep track of the days?  Not me.  That's who.

May 28, 2010

-Sometimes I accidentally make things awkward without noticing.

-Actually, the most awkward thing about me is probably how often I talk about being awkward.

-...Does anyone want to elope?

As you can see, my entries don't follow any sort of linear, cohesive train of thought.  They consist of a lot of one-liners that confuse me when I go back and read them.

One day I will include more entries complete with the illustrations straight from the journal.   Also, assuming no one is so freaked out at my insanity, I will publish MOAR ENTRIEEEZZZ!

Actually, I probably will anyway, whether you're freaked out or not.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Feel accomplished the easy way!

Some people are just really good at stuff, you know?  They walk into a room and they're all, "Oh hey.  I won an award for having the sexiest hair in the Western hemisphere.  Also, I got an A in every class ever and am excused from all schooling for forever.  And this morning I burped and twelve people were cured of infectious diseases.  What's up with you?"  It's at this point that I need something better to say than, "Um.  I drew bears for seven hours last night."

Not everyone can be Superman/Dan Bergstein/Harry Potter, right?  Some of us just don't win things (I may or may not be talking specifically about myself).  That is why I have decided to do us all a favor.  Below you will find some very stylish awards that you are free to stick anywhere.  Print 'em out, add 'em to your blog/facebook, run around with them taped all over your body screaming, "I IS WINNER FOR REALLLLZ!!!"  Your call.



 Way to go, champ.   You deserve this.  

Also, I deserve this.  Wanna know how often I win?  Never.  Except that one time when I was a kid and I entered my name into a Radio Disney drawing at the grocery store and I won tickets to see a Jesse McCartney concert because the Radio Disney guys had to give them away before five and only two other kids entered the drawing.  Yeah.  That was awesome.

Updated: Many of you know that I heart The Bloggess more than I heart...a lot of things.  I don't know I can't come up with a comparison.  SUE ME....Please don't though.

Anyway, I was browsing through her blog archives today and stumbled upon this.  Which probably means we have some sort of psychic connection or that I stalk her in my sleep without knowing about it and it kind of freaks me out that we both made awards about bears and unicorns and they both were in the same line of thought which makes me think that maybe I am more like Jenny than I thought and that makes me get excited-faced.  Except her awards are INFINITELY better because she does this crap for a living.  That's excellence.  Anyway, I feel the need to award myself this:

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Well. This was much less exciting than that time I sat around and did nothing.

Today, Utah was all a-buzz with impending doom.

All the news stations were reporting that there would be a massive blizzard.  It would be The Storm To End All Storms.  It would go down in history as The Storm Of The Century.  It was going to be terrifying and yet, somehow, cathartic for all involved.  It would forever change Utah.  All Utahns would learn the value of friendship and courage in the face of adversity.  There would be epiphanies and realizations and wrongs made right.  But there would be mass deaths.  Mass tragedy.  Mass Costco crowds, stocking up on essential survival supplies, such as pasta, bottled water, and huge tanks of propane.  Also, wolverine guns.  Just in case the wolverines decided to take advantage of Utah's weakness and launched an attack.

I hate snow, with the fiery passion of someone who prefers tomatoes to snow.  Snow is horrible.  Snow tries to kill me on a regular basis.  Snow is The Universe's greatest weapon against me.  I have already nearly killed myself in the snow this year.  I must trudge through the snow to get to class.  Really, there is no way to emphasize how much I hate snow.  "But it is beautiful!" you say.  Yes.  Yes it is.  It is beautiful in exactly the way that a siren temptress's song is beautiful.  But then you get close and it smashes you upon the rocks and dines on your flesh.

And yet...I was kind of excited for this Monster Of All Blizzards.  I imagined a world in which I was the grim survivor of a catastrophe.  The Catastrophe Of A Lifetime.  I couldn't wait to prove to the snow and The Universe, once and for all, that I, Megan Audrey Prietzel, would conquer The Very Deadly Snow Event.  I was psyched.

The suspense built.  I came home from school early, hoping to beat the Crazy Stormy Storm that was sure to begin wreaking havoc on Utah at any freaking moment.  Tension filled the gray, chilly air.  My mother stocked up the entire house with supplies.  I made cookies.  Shaped like stars!!!!  (They are so cute, CAN YOU IMAGINE?!)

I turned on the television and decided to wait for Poseidon If He Were A Storm while watching Star Wars.  I finished A New Hope.  I looked outside.  No snow.  I finished The Empire Strikes Back.  I looked outside.  Godzilla Snow Attack had not yet begun raining terror.

Frustrated, I turned on the news.  "What's the deal, News?" I asked the T.V.

...Okay.  Alright.  It IS the news.  I'll buy it.  Voldemort Blizzard is coming.  I can wait.



Three hours later, I had an image in my head of utter destruction.  I was so sure that outside, the world had come to a halt.  The Dreaded Storm Of Peril had killed the entire state, I was positive.  Eventually, the star cookies were baked and all that remained for me to do was assess the ruinous desolation that was sure to be my neighborhood.  

This was what I pictured:

This was the reality:

 For someone who plots for the eternal death of snow, this was pretty disappointing to me.

WHAT THE HECK, NEWS?  You have deceived me.  It was at this point that I began to realize what was happening.

I turned on the T.V. again.  Scenes of white outs, standstill traffic, survival kits, and men speculating about humanity's odds of utter destruction dominated the news station.  My suspicions were confirmed.

There was no storm.  This was all a clever hoax.  All of the evidence, all of the hype, all of the news reports were a ruse, a strike against me personally.  Obviously.  And I had fallen for it.

Touche, Universe.  Touche indeed.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Things that make me sad in the heart

1. People who hate me.  (Who knew that disliking Megamind would cause so many people so much misery.  I AM SORRY THAT YOU FEEL MISERY AND HATE INSTEAD OF RAINBOWS BECAUSE I DID NOT LIKE MEGAMIND.  PLEASE DO NOT SEND ME SCORPIONS IN THE MAIL.  I'm allergic.  Probably.)

2.  Utah being like, "Hey, Megan.  I'ma be covered in snow now, okay?  Cool."

3.  People who have taken to disliking things solely because I like them.  Don't take your misery out on Despicable Me.  It has cute little girls and unicorns.  It deserves your love.  IT'S ME YOU WANT.

4.  Genocide.

5.  The first 100 pages of The Fellowship of the Ring.  I have read those pages a billion times.  I am attempting another reading.  BUT COME ON.

Frodo, Sam, and Pippin forged through the brambles, 'neath the canopy of emerald leaves.  The leaves, forming an emerald canopy, filtered light so that the ground appeared dappled with greenish lighty light.  The brambles through which the three hobbits were forging were very dense and it took them three hours to forge.  Three hours of dense brambles, underneath an emerald canopy, [insert complicated geography pertaining to the Shire for three consecutive paragraphs.  Still remain in the brambles.] And so it was that Frodo, Sam, and Pippin became hungry and sat down for a rest in a green clearing, finally free of brambles, where they ate lunch and sang a little hobbit song about food. 

Now, because I know that some of you guys take me OH SO SERIOUSLY, I now have to point out that the above paragraph was of my own construction, and was clearly very silly.  J.R.R. Tolkien is brilliant and his descriptions are incredible, if lengthy.  I am merely pointing out that these descriptions are so very very long and...descriptive.  Blah blah blah, apology, blah blah, explanation for my behavior, blah blah blah I wouldn't have to be boring and explain myself if people didn't take me so seriously all the time. Are you happy now?  IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?

But in all seriousness, though, this really does make me sad, because I thought it was pretty well understood that everything I write for both Megansquared and SparkLife is firmly categorized as, "Mildly Humorous Junk That Should Not Be Cause For Fighting And Hating," and I'm the kind of person who will agonize about those few people who decided that I suck because my clearly ridiculous opinion is different from theirs, and they took me too seriously.  Should I send them a gift basket?  Should I email, begging for forgiveness for my treachery?  Should I revoke my opinion?  Should I BLOW UP MY TRASH CAN?!  (This has less to do with angry commenters and more to do with my own curiosity.)

Let me break it down for you real quick:

Percentage of things that I write which should never be taken seriously: 98%
Percentage of serious things that I write that pertain to unicorns: 1.9999%
Percentage of things that I write that I'm dead serious about: .00001

The lesson to be learned here: If I ever write about unicorns, you can take that to the bank, because seriously, I love those things.  Everything else you may dismiss as silliness unless clearly stated.  If I write, "This is to be taken seriously," then you may take it seriously.

Oh, but now you are confused.  "Megan, how do we know we ought to take the above paragraph seriously, then?  LOGICAL FALLACY!"

Well, let me help you:  The above paragraphs are to be taken seriously.  But, like, in a non-serious way.  You know what I'm saying?

6. The fact that I have to explain when I'm being serious.

7.  I left my computer mouse somewhere. I don't know where.  Now my drawings look like this:

If you can't read that, don't worry about it.  It's just pathetic.  You probably don't want to be able to read it.

8.  The fact that the above drawing still looks pretty much like all of my other drawings.  That's just sad.

All of the above things have culminated to Megan feeling sad about stuff.  Which means Megan may not write until after Thanksgiving.  This may be taken seriously.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Super interesting stuff, here. In, like, a boring kind of way.

I'M BACK!  And I had bacon on Saturday morning.  Oh mother, thou knowest me so well.

I wish I had an awesome story to tell you.  But my weekend went like this:
1. Megan does not go see the high school play that she really wanted to see.  She looks like this, only hotter:  :(
2. Megan eats her weight in truffles.
3. Megan has bacon.
4. Megan spends three hours eating a corndog in a seedy rural gas station while being ogled by a strange man who walked out of the front door backward in order to continue said ogling all the way out to his car.  Megan also saw a drug deal being performed in front of the gas station, and later talked to the drug dealer.  Megan debated whether or not she should have called the cops instead of pointing him to the nearest ATM.
5. Just now, Megan realizes that there is a weekend story.  Oh.
6. Megan saw "Megamind."  Megan had serious issues with "Megamind."  She hated it.  She wrote a review.  If SparkLife doesn't publish it, it will be posted here.  But probably it will be on SparkLife this week at some point.
7. Megan breathes air.
8. Megan's brother buys two packs of Star Wars playing cards.  Megan gets very jealous.  Megan begs for one and is thwarted.  She plots to steal said cards, but her brother knows her ways and prevents this by saying, "No."  Megan gets pissed that all she has are stupid peanut M&M cards.  Megan doesn't even like peanut M&Ms.

I'm tired of writing my name now.  It's hard.  Megan will refer to herself as "Juicy Fruit Chewing Gum" for the remainder of this post.

9.  Juicy Fruit Chewing Gum eats a lot of McDonald's because she loves it.  She realizes that 20,874 people will now comment/email her to inform her that McD's is disgusting and icky and will kill her.  Here is your answer, before you email: Yes.  I know.  I like to bathe in mercury and inhale straight carbon monoxide, though, so I figure McDonald's isn't really a big deal, by comparison.

10.  That's about it.

11.  Oh wait, Juicy Fruit Chewing Gum also spends two days obsessing over Good Dog and Bad Dog because they were shaved recently and it is cold here it Utah.  She spends ludicrous amounts of time wrapping dogs in blankets.  

So maybe I'll write about the seedy gas station.  That sounds mildly interesting.  Right?

Also, New Moon post?  I think maybe so.  We'll see how it goes.

Comment that made me lulz: "I don't know Megan...that ":(" looks pretty FIINE to me! Like, on a scale of sexiness, 1 being Susan Boyle and 10 being not Susan Boyle, it would OH MY GOD DO I SMELL BACON?! Please excuse me while I partake in my bacon sniffing festivities" -Erik

Friday, November 12, 2010

A few things before I leave you all for the weekend.

I'm not going anywhere special.  I'm just going to try really hard to not internet.


First and foremost, my latest post on SparkLife is up.  TWO IN ONE WEEK.  I'm a freaking superstar.  You should check it, because it's probably the peak of my career.  Seriously, now y'all (NEED. NEW.  WORD.) are going to expect me to be funny, and I'll feel pressured, and I'll start posting drawings of tap dancing bananas and no one will be amused or impressed and then I will spiral into a deep depression and venture off-campus in order to procure a caffeinated Coke.  (There's no caffeine on campus.  THIS IS MY LIFE.)  (I LOVE CAPS TODAY.)

Second, I get all nervous and stuff asking you people for help, because in my head, if I ask a favor you all will be like, "WHAT THE HECK.  UNFOLLOW!" and I know that you guys are probably more awesome than that, but still.  This is the way Megan's brain works.

So here's the favor.  Feel free to say no and then question the symmetry of my facial structure.  Simply put, spread the word, if you can.  If you have Facebook or Twitter, post a link to my blog.  I will then be forever happy, and will award everyone a veritable mountain of points.  In fact, TAKE THEM.  Just for reading, you all get one hundred thousand points.  However, now the points are worthless, and the point market just crashed and you all hate me because you can no longer afford your petty trinkets.  So maybe you can all have one hundred points.  Fair?

Third, a lot of you have been saying that you want to be my friend.  WELL YOU CAN!  Simply go to Facebook and search:  (the period between "megan" and "squared" is there on purpose, folks) and add me up!  You also should go follow me on Twitter, because that would be FUN!  There are more nifty ways to contact me in my contact section.  I almost always respond to people.

Fourth, you guys are seriously the best, ever.  All the people who read and comment on my SparkLife posts and my blog are just so funny and witty and hilarious and I literally CANNOT WAIT for comments on a new post because you guys are just so laugh-out-loud funny.  I just about die.  Which is why I'll probably now be implementing an "Awesome Comment" section of each blog post.  Because I just have to share the awesome.  EXAMPLE:

Awesome Comment: "Megan, you are very attractive and your face is very symmetrical." ~Megan Prietzel

Fifth, I'm sorry that I talk about bacon so much.  If you are a vegetarian, I don't mean to offend you, but you don't understand.  I just LOVE bacon.  I'm not into vegetarianism, but if you talked about it, I wouldn't bash you or think you were uninteresting just because you are involved with or like something that I don't.  You see the point I'm making here?  Please be nice to me, or I will cry and the whole world will drown in my tears.

See ya, Sparkle Pies.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

It was funny if you were there. Well, not really. Mostly this whole event was just pathetic. Kind of like this post.

Some of you may have noticed that I have been posting/tweeting/facebook status updating about migraine headaches.  This is because I have had migraine headaches.  Often these headaches are accompanied by weird vertigo and imbalance, so much so that the other day while I was getting lunch on campus, I thought there was an earthquake and that we were all going to die and I didn't know why no one else was freaking out.  But I WAS.  I was freaking out.  Internally, though, because if I'm gonna die a horrible death in a natural disaster, I'm going to be composed.  Like, "Oh, look, Humphrey.  The floor is splitting open beneath us.  How jovial!"

I do not know who Humphrey is.  In my imagination, there is a Humphrey, apparently.

Anyway, the last time I had a bout of these headaches, it was because my eyes suck and they can't see anything and so they wanted me dead and told my brain to hurt.

Clearly, my inability to see anything whatsoever was causing my migraines, and the doctor was all, "Here are contacts," and then I got better!

So this recent bout of migraines naturally spurred me on over to the eye doctor, who prescribed me new contacts, different contacts.  I now have a different prescription for each eye, because one of my eyes is kind of stupid.

At the doctor's office, my eyeballs were poked and measured and made to do all kinds of tests that they hadn't studied for.  You know those charts they show you at the eye doctors office?  The ones with all the little letters?  Those charts always make me feel like failure.
I always feel really bad for my eyeballs after I take those tests.  It's not their fault that they suck.  Some things just can't be explained, like magic and long division.

So the nurse was all, "Do you want your eyes dilated, or do you want to come back later?" and I was all,"DILATE ME UP" cause I wasn't going to come back to the dumb doctor just to get my dumb eyes dumb dilated dumb. 

As we were leaving the office, I suddenly found it difficult to, like, see.  Also, my eyes looked like aliens and they were basically sucking all the light in the world into themselves so that I was like, "WHAT THE HECK MIGRAINES HURT AND THIS HURTS AS WELL."

And then my mom was like, "Let's go to Costco!  We need to get your prescription!" and, um, it's Costco.  So of course I was practically wetting my pants with excitement. 

As we entered Costco, I traipsed happily over to the glasses section and got super excited about getting my first pair of glasses ever.  The guy behind the counter pointed me to the women's glasses section, and then I encountered a problem, being that I couldn't freaking see anything.  So there I was, the glasses guy staring at me and trying to be helpful and ready to offer suggestions or tell me how awesome I looked in my glasses and I just stood there, unable to tell which blurry smudge I should put on my face but too embarrassed to admit it, pretending like I was just extremely picky.  Then I yanked a pair off the stand and put them on, because asking for help was just out of the question, of course.

Fortunately my mom saved me from buying the ugliest glasses in existence.  I still don't know what my new glasses will look like.  I hope they're made of bacon.

Wait.  No I hope they aren't, because then I will eat them and be blind again.

After ordering my glasses, my mom and I walked around taking in the wonder and glamor that is Costco.  Every now and then she would see something apparently amazing on one of the many t.v.'s and say, "WHOA Megan isn't that cool?" and I would be sadface because I couldn't see.

The dilation of my eyes was such that anything too close or too far away was a blurry mess, but there was a perfect point in my line of vision that enabled me to get a clear shot of an object.  Because of this, I was able to see a shiny stack of CDs and simply could not help myself and was all, "OMGOMGOMGOMG SUSAN BOYLE OMGHERNEWCHRISTMASCD!!" which is funny because I don't own a single Susan Boyle CD but for some reason it was of tantamount importance that I stop walking and spend ten minutes trying to read the back of the disc case.

Of course, my mom had moved on by then, not noticing I wasn't with her, and I got lost.  It was at this point that my bladder was like. "HI.  I exist and I have needs." and I really really needed to find a restroom except that I couldn't read a freaking thing.

Is that a sign on the wall?  Does it say restrooms?  Or is it a picture?  Or perhaps a decorative neon light?  Or maybe it's absolutely nothing.  (It was absolutely nothing.)

I wandered around Costco, pretending like I was a totally capable human being.  Oh look!  A thing!  A thing that I need to buy because I'm adult and not in any way physically compromised right now!  I want cleaner pipe. Yeahhh...

Finally my mom found me and I asked her to tell me where the bathroom was and she sighed like I was five and pointed across the store and then walked toward what I can only assume was the entrance of Costco because after that I was pretty much alone.  I directed myself toward the bathroom and found it out of sheer luck.  However, to one side was a sign and to another was another sign.  I was fairly certain one said "men" and the other "women" but I couldn't tell.  My brow became quizzical.  I squinted and sighed and twined my hands in my hair nervously and eventually I chose the door that bore (what I thought) was the longer wording.

Apparently I chose correctly, because there were no urinals.  Although it's possible that there were urinals and I just thought they were sinks.  And that the men in the restroom were too shocked by my appearance to say anything.  Either that, or they felt pity for me, because I'm positive I looked fairly pathetic.

And then everything was okay and I got a magical unicorn and rode off into the sunset.

(You can tell that I got tired of writing this because that is not at all what happened.  The end.)

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

I have a story. This is not it. Instead, enjoy this song.

I will tell you my story when I have the patience/time/motivation to write it down and illustrate it.  It involves dilated pupils and Costco.  So basically, it's going to be awesome.

In the meantime, my friend Mark (Nasta G) posted this original song.  He is one talented guy, and I especially like it cause of the video game music.  Ten points if you know what it is.

Seriously, though, this kid wrote a rap for last year's talent show at our school and it was both hilarious and extremely well-written.  I don't like rap, you guys, but I like Mark's stuff.  And it's not just cause he's my friend, cause I have plenty of friends who are awesome, but I generally don't link to their work.  I only do that if I'm SERIOUSLY into it.  And at the moment, this song is my "I'm pretending to study but really laughing hysterically at SparkLife comments" song.

Check it out, y'all.  Or peasants.  Followers.  Minions?  Commoners?  I still do not have my word. 

Brothers and sisters, check it out.

Monday, November 8, 2010

My brain and I are fighting again. I hope the kids don't hear us.

I have a problem.  I don't know if it's me or my brain or if the distinction between the two doesn't really matter, but nonetheless, a problem I have.  Observe:

Me:  Let's do homework.
Brain:  No.
Me:  Well...okay.  Study, then?
Brain:  You're stupid.  I'm going to get all swell-y and crap so that you'll be in pain.
Me:  No not another migraine!  Listen, brain, we REALLY need to start on the Portuguese workbook.
Brain:  No, let's look at pictures of kittens in boxes.
Me:  We did that for three hours yesterday.
Brain:  I know.  But this is the internet.  JUST THINK OF HOW MANY MORE KITTEN PICTURES THERE PROBABLY ARE NOW!  Oh, the boxes!  The kittens!  We must.
Me:  No, brain.  We can't.
Brain:  GAR!  I bestow upon you, pain!
Me:  *Whimper*  Aaaah, no...I can't let you win.
Me:  *Sob*  ...okay.  Okay.  Kittens, then.


PS.  Your comments make me laugh and I love them.  FYI, I certainly DON'T think any of you are creepy.  At all.  I'm so happy that you creep on me, in fact, because I'm a creep too. Word to the wise, creeps make the world go round, y'all.

PPS. I have the strange urge to say "y'all" all the time now.  Whaaaa?  I'm from Utah.  We don't say "y'all."  We say "brothers and sisters."  I need a new word which refers to a large group of people collectively, with which I can address said group.

Updated:  Click here to add me on Facebook.  THIS is the account to add, sparkle pies.  

I should definitely be sleeping

What I want to say is that my head is like, "AAAAAH I'm going to kill you with the stabbing pain of one thousand narwhal horns."

Wait.  I mean that I'm supposed to say that narwhals are awesome.  I heart narwhals, you guys.  Just because I haven't mentioned them, doesn't mean that I don't love them.  I'm sorry, narwhals.  You deserve better. 

I'm sorry.  I'm not very funny.  This is a failure.  Go read "Ice Factory" instead.  If you're new to my blog, just read ANYTHING else.  I swear I'm not usually this idiotic.  Scratch that.  I totally am, it's just that usually there are more pictures involved, and less migraine-induced sleep deprivation.

I will probably delete this in the morning.  Enjoy, procrastinating college/high school students who don't go to bed when they should.  Also, enjoy, countries on the other side of the world.

UPDATED:  You know what?  No.  You don't own me, migraine.  I'm going to leave this post up so that all of your facebook friends will delete you for being such a dumb tack jerk mugger.

Also, my "Twilight" post for some reason is attractive to you guys.  Have you not read Dan Bergstein?  Awesome times 34,234.

Please don't compare me to Dan Bergstein now.  I will fall woefully behind on my chart of coolness.  Anyway.  Would you be interested in a continuation of that Twilight thing?  Like New Moon for people who don't like New Moon?  Or should I just pretend that I never wrote the first one to begin with?  I will stare at my computer screen until you answer me.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Ice factory

Hello there, I'm Megan Prietzel, founder and president of Megan's Crazy Ice Factory.  Do you want a fulfilling job in a booming business market?  Do you like cold beverages?  Do you hate heat stroke?  Then, boy, do I have an offer for you!

Simply come on down to Megan's Crazy Ice Factory and apply for a job today!  Here at Megan's Crazy Ice Factory, we have a variety of FANTASTIC careers for you to choose from.

Ice Magician
Ice Magicians (Patent Pending) are where the "magic" really starts to happen!  (You see what I did there?  Lolz, I'm the funniest boss in the ever.)  As an Ice Magician (Patent Pending) you'll create scrumptious ice cubes using Water (Patent Pending).  It will be your responsibility to pour our (almost) patented Water into special trays.  This is where the whole process begins!

If the end result doesn't taste good, we'll fire and decapitate you!  Haha! 

Water Stirrer
As a Water Stirrer (patent pending) you will hold a large wooden spoon and stir water ALL DAY LONG.  This process ensures that the Water is stirred!

Water Safety Expert
Our factory is absolutely FULL of radiation emitted from our nuclear generator, which I think is leaking.  However, our Water Safety Experts are on the clock 24 hours a day, pouring ammonia and bleach into all of our Water in order to ensure consumer safety!  Water Safety Experts also add lots and lots of different ingredients and flavors to the Water in order to ensure that costumers never ever figure out that they're ingesting chemicals!  LOL!

Elephant Checker
Elephants are not allowed in our Ice Cubes!  Elephant Checkers use state of the art elephant detecting technology to search for and remove any stray elephants from any of our ingredients!  Elephant Checkers also clean the factory, so that we don't have to hire a janitor.


Ice Taste Tester
We take quality very seriously here at Megan's Crazy Ice Factory.  That's why we hire fully trained Ice Taste Testers.  As a new recruit, you will attend a fifteen minute training session with me, Megan Prietzel of Megan's Crazy Ice Factory, where I, Megan Prietzel of Megan's Crazy Ice Factory, will instruct you on the fine art of Ice Taste Testing.  After a rigorous but super fun training experience, you will be locked in a room with nothing but a huge freezer and a conveyor belt, which will deliver freshly made Crazy Ice Cubes (patent pending) for you to taste!

Our taste testing motto is, "Once you taste it, you sure can't waste it!" so after determining the Yummy Factor (patent pending) of each individual ice cube, you'll package the delicious chunks of frozen yum and send them to our Quality Assurance Center.

Quality Assurance Center-ist
Quality is important to us here at Megan's Crazy Ice Factory.  That's why we hire dozens and dozens of Quality Assurance Center-ists to lick each and every ice cube at least seven times, checking for taste, smell, color, elephants, and taste.  Also, color.  We check for that too.  At Megan's Crazy Ice Factory, we like to shoot for "Quality" which stands for "Quietly Utilize A Licking Ice Taster, Yes!"  This motto reminds our employees to lick EVERY ice cube until each and every cube is coated in a layer of saliva!

Packaging Drone
As a member of our packaging staff, you (patent pending) will be responsible for (patent pending) stuffing the Crazy Ice Cubes (patent pending) into plastic (patent pending) bags and shipping them to a third world country, where the Cubes will be properly packaged, and then sent back to our factory!

Delivery Expert
You get to drive a truck!  Yaaaay!  Vroom vroom!

Must come to factory to apply.  Must have little to no tendency for remorse, ability to operate heavy machinery, and knowledge of underground tunnel systems worldwide.

Convinced yet?  As a member of our award wining staff* you will have the opportunity to produce award winning ice** to be distributed to your very own neighborhood market!  All employees receive a benefit package including: ten dollars towards dental insurance each year, 30 minutes of vacation time for every 6 years of work at the factory, an invisible and intangible unicorn, a year's worth of free breathing privileges and oxygen in the factory,  and a 0.00000001% discount on all Crazy Ice products!  Now that's an offer you just can't refuse!

And remember, look for Megan's Crazy Ice at your local grocery store for only $15.99 per cube!

"Only $15.99?!  THAT'S CRAZY!!"

That's not crazy, that's just how we do business here at Megan's Crazy Ice Factory.

*Winner of the Megan Prietzel award for "Awesomest Staff, Like, Ever."
**Winner of the Megan Prietzel award for "THAT'S SOME TASTY ICE."

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I forgot to title this. Fail.

 Today has been full of blessed miraculous miracles.  If you're a new reader, go down a couple of posts, cause that's where the funny is.  I promise I'll get back on top of being a good blogger soon.

The first post in my new series, tentatively titles "Megan's Life Lessons," is now up on Sparknotes.  ON THE FRONT PAGE.  Click THIS to take a look and possibly laugh.  (P.S. apparently my flaming paperclip of glory looks like a flaming pad.  WHOOPS.)

I love every single person who reads, comments, and subscribes, and you all get to come to my VICTORY PIE party.  (There will be victory pie.)

Would anyone like some victory pie?

Hey there, everybody.

I'm a terrible blogger, I know.  AND I'M SORRY.  It's just that things are getting a little exciting/crazy for me.  I have been writing posts, but right now, they're not for megansquared.  Vague and mysterious, no?  Well that's just how I do things here at megansquared.

Anyway, here's the big news:  If you live under a rock and you don't already know, has an awesome, hilarious, hugely entertaining section called SparkLife.  I have wanted to write for SparkLife for, oh I don't know, forever.  I emailed them, tempted them with some prime blog posts and links to this here blog, and BAM!  That onomatopoeia references my new series, which as of yet has no clever title.  It also has not been posted yet.  I am working on it, and as soon as it is up, I will post a link here so that all may bask.

Also!  Contest!  If you can think of a clever/hilarious title for my series, I'll reward you with a personalized drawing!  It might even be a good drawing!  Probably not though.

The series is going to be a lot like this blog; it will be random and have no real linear structure.  Because that's how I roll here at megansquared.  And now at SparkLife.  What of it?!?

Shoot me your ideas, yo!

P.S. Apparently my brilliant layout doesn't look so brilliant in some browsers.  If you use Google Chrome, you're probably seeing something ugly instead of something beautiful.  I apologize.  I would fix it, but I don't know how.  So I won't.  KTHXBAI.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

How to get an A in English

English is a hard subject for many reasons.  It involves spelling, it involves words, and it involves grammar.  No other language includes all three of these things, and I'm pretty sure most of them are comprised of guttural grunting noises and a series of clicks and whistles.  Fortunately, I've constructed this handy guide to help you navigate and pass the rigorous course that is English.

Spelling is difficult because it involves letters, and some letters exist only to ruin your life.  The letter "P," for example, is a jerk.  If it is paired with the letter "H," it sounds like an "F."  If it is paired with the letter "S," it sounds like...well, like an "S."  When paired with other letters, like, say, the letter "R," "P" pretends to be all innocent and crap and does exactly what it's supposed to.  It is false and deceitful.  "P" is such a jerk, and it never responds to my emails.  Jerk.

"P" also looks a lot like the number 9, which poses difficulty for young children who happen to have fairly common first names and also have last names which start with the letter P, because maybe a certain young child is just trying to learn to differentiate between numbers and letters and the teacher hands back corrected papers to the class and loudly calls out "Megan 9?  Who is Megan 9?  We don't USE numbers in our NAMES, MEGAN!!" and then the poor child gets all embarrassed and remembers it to this very day and....

What?  Where am I?

Anyway.  The letter P.  It sucks.  In order to help you remember this, I've created the following illustration:
The concept to grasp here: the letter "P" is evil.

Here are some helpful tips when you're trying to spell things:
1. Don't spell in Spanish.
2. Spell in English.
3. When in doubt, just mouth the word "Watermelon."  That's a tip I learned from my fourth grade choir class.
4. If you don't remember how to spell a word, write "Watermelon" and then make it look like the word you are supposed to be spelling.
5. Pants inhibit blood flow to the brain.  Don't wear them to class.
6. Only use letters that appear in the alphabet.  If you cannot remember which letters are in the alphabet, make up your own letters because you are likely to be right at least some of the time.

The most important thing to remember when spelling is to believe in yourself.  When you have confidence in the magical power of your inner self or whatever, you cannot fail!  Try your best, kiddo.  And don't forget, there's no "P" in the phrase "Good speller."

Grammar is like the crappy math of the English world.  Grammar makes you think about things like fragments, comma splices, tense shifts, and subject-verb agreement.  All this stuff kind of sucks.  They really aren't as hard as they sound though:

If you want to be a grammar wizard, there are a few things you must always do.  

First, whenever you grasp a rule of grammar, cling to it like it's the holy grail of rules.  Whenever anyone misuses this rule or blatantly ignores it, consider it your divine calling to correct them immediately and succinctly.  Always be sure to act condescending and patronizing, because otherwise they just won't learn.  It's a fact.

Second, ignore any and all changes in the structure of the English language.  For example, it is now grammatically correct to use only one space after a period.  This is a ridiculous rule.  I grew up my whole life typing TWO SPACES.  It is the only correct way.  I will forever hold to what I know to be true.  I will also stubbornly insist on keeping all my VHS tapes and reading books that are made of paper.  In ten years no one will like me, but I will be so right.  It's worth it.  Keep your fancy high-definition space laser discs and your magical "e-readers."

Third, if you don't know a rule of grammar, just pretend like you do.  When your friend shakes his head and says "It always bothers me when I see a 'ten items or less' checkout station.  It's so incorrect," you must respond quickly, otherwise everyone you know and love will hate you forever for your ignorance.  Also, kittens will explode.

Below are some statements I've created that are suitable for any situation, and are definitely applicable when you don't know the rules of grammar.  Simply respond by saying:

"That was overturned at the Geneva Convention."
"That's so racist."
"I'm good at grammar."
"I love orphans."
"My whole family is dying of an incurable disease."
"Velociraptor overlords will soon be arriving from the past to take over, so it really doesn't matter."

Words are just letters mushed up together to create sounds which are attached to meanings.  It is all very complicated.  If you have enough words together, and they all make sense in context with each other, you will have a sentence.  But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves.

These are words:

These are not words:

When in doubt, refer to this handy list. It's basically comprehensive.

Sentences can lead to paragraphs,which in turn can lead to pointless essays (which you will inevitably encounter in your education), so it's important to know what a sentence is and how to use it.

A sentence looks like this:
The meth lab exploded into a million particles of chemical-doused rubble.

A sentence does not look like this:

Also, something about subjects and verbs and independent clauses.  (Hint: not Santa Clauses.)

I, don't know how, to use commas.  ,,,,

Now go earn that A!

Monday, October 18, 2010

When I grow up to be even more awesome than I am now, this is what it will look like

I am not married, and I probably won't be married any time soon because I think I don't like being married yet.  That's the idea, anyway.

Nevertheless, I have come up with some super-cool plans for my future.  Dive in, shall we?

Ideas for the names of my future daughters:
Twilight Bella (Just in case I want to name one of them after Twilight Bella.  Wouldn't want people to be confused.)
Helen Keller (Too far?)
Picture Frame
Picture Frame II
Picture Frame Decorated With Butterflies
Wikipedia (Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?)
* (Pronounced "Asterisk"
**(Pronounced "Double Asterisk")
(**) (Pronounced "Parenthesis Double Asterisk Amanda")

(o.o)    (Pronounced "Franchesca")  (Or "Robot Bunny")  (Or both)

Ideas for the names of my future sons:
CrimsonRedScarletJones (His favorite color will be yellow, probably)
Cement (Pronounced See-Ment.  Probably will not go over well.)
Newton's Third Law (I always forget this one)
AAAAAH!FIRE!EVERYONERUN!!!! (Pronounced "Christopher")
Atticus Google
Atticus LeGoogle
& (I don't know how I would pronounce this.)
Brunhildo (See, I took a popular female Viking name and made it male.  I want people to know how incredibly creative I am.  SO creative.  In fact, watch this next one.  It's a doozy.)
Satin Oxygen Little Bird

I also have ideas for my future name.  As I understand, it changes when you get married.  If I get to change my name, I would like for it to be one of these:

Optimus Beyonce (This is a bit of homage to Dan Bergstein, who should probably just go ahead and create a baby naming book.  It would be awesome.)
Megan Braveheart
Megan Iscool
Megan !
LeMegan Leblahbleaux (In case I marry a French guy.)
Megan Angel Miracle
The Illustrious Megan
Megan Jeremiah
Megan Megan
Megan M. Megan
Megan Sexyfacehotpants
Megan Gotareallybigdiamondring
The Wittiest, Most Charming Woman Ever To Have Lived

I also have picked out my future home.

I has a rocket.  Do you?
Not pictured in the above photo representation: hot tub, unicorn stables, more more cake, and back door.  Also, mailbox.

My future occupation will be one of the following:
Supreme Dictator of the State of Utah
Supreme Dictator of Any Other Place
Person Who Gets Paid To Eat Cake
Official Officiator
Person Who Writes About Random Crap And Draws Lousy Pictures
Blogger Who Writes About Random Crap And Draws Lousy Pictures
Person Who Makes "PH" Not Sound Like "F" Anymore Because It Makes No Sense
Struggling College Student

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Pants with a polar bear

There are three easily recognizable classes of pants.

First, comfortable pants.

Comfortable pants are usually sweatpants, but they can also be a pair of old jeans.  They inhibit your movement only minimally.  They allow you to sit without exposing your butt crack.  They feel almost as good as not wearing pants, except nothing feels as good as not wearing pants.  However, if you have to wear pants, comfortable ones are the best option.

Comfortable pants will never let you down, especially when you leave the house wearing them because people will think you are a hobo and will give you leftover sandwiches.

Polar bears are awesome.

The second class of pants are stylish pants.

These pants generally have rips, tears, fading, and other signs of wear.  These damages are intended to make you look attractive.  You may think that these pants will garner you free leftover sandwiches.  You are mistaken.  Stylish pants often have strange and shiny logos emblazoned directly on the butt pockets so that each rump-cheek glistens with rhinestones and advertising.  These pants will, in no particular order: suffocate you, rip in the crotch at any sudden movement, disallow you from running away from pursuers, prove extremely difficult both to insert your body into and to remove from your body, and make bare your butt crack for all the world to see.  They will also situate around your pelvic area in a way that will cause your girth to overflow out of them like a waterfall of fat, no matter how skinny you are.  If you are not skinny, they will eventually cut off your blood circulation, and you will die.

These pants sometimes make you feel sexy fine, but usually they just make your legs go numb.  They are often accessorized with other stylish, similarly impractical items.

The third class: trendy (for some reason) pants.

"Trendy" pants are puzzling in that they are invariably hideous and clearly unfit for anything other than stockpiling extra fabric for sewing together a sail in case of abandonment in an ocean.  The "invariably hideous" factor is key to trendy pants, because whether they be checkered, tie-dyed, a blinding shade of neon, or these monstrosities, this category of pants causes the wearer shame in future years.

Overalls don't count as pants, and polar bears are still awesome.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

I apologize for this in advance

There is really no point to this post other than to tell you guys that I suck at posting.

Sometimes I get super jazzed and excited about my blog and I'm all "I'm gonna kick butt and post and stuff!" and inspiration hits me like a tidal wave of awesome and everything's great and my stats are wonderful and then...

I'm like...."never mind."  For no good reason.

Sometimes my brain says to me "Hey, you're never going to be successful if you don't actually post on your blog" and I say "Well, brain, if you weren't so easily distracted..." and my brain says "SILENCE! Let's think about space pirates" and I'm all "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT."

Also, someone found my blog by searching for "DJ Tiesto" which is mildly flattering, but mostly I'm just pretty sure whoever that guy is was wildly disappointed.  He was looking for techno beats and he got bee phobias and unicorns.
Someone also found my blog by searching "stairs doug pants jeans awkward keys helpful" which I understand, except for the "helpful" part.  I'm probably the least helpful person I know.  99 percent of what I write is junk.  1 percent is actually probably useful.  Not that I've ever written about anything explicitly useful, per se, but I'm sure that something, somewhere in the archives could be misconstrued as helpful.  There are probably some kind of survival tactics or zombie-slaying methods around here somewhere.  Probably disguised as an awkward drawing or covered in glitter.

On a happy note, according to the poll, most of you either get super excited when you read my blog, or you are at least entertained.  Unfortunately, four of you have stabbed your eyes out.  I'm very sorry that I caused such premature vision damage.  (I'm assuming it's premature.  If you're blind, you probably didn't even know what you clicked, so it's kind of ironic that you said I make you want to stab your eye.  In fact, you can't read this.  I could totally make fun of you.  But I won't, because making fun of blind people isn't funny.  At all.  Except sometimes.) (Not gonna do it though.) (....Oh but I so could.) (Don't worry.  I didn't say what I was thinking.)  Anyway.  A couple of you apparently ended up here looking for Twilight.  If that's the case, you probably want my Twilight post for people who didn't like Twilight and just wanted an explosion or two. 

Or you might hate it.  Your call.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Awkward things that hurt my soul.

Living away from home has brought up some serious issues in my day to day survival.  As it turns out, I actually require many things to survive never before considered.  Surprising things, like laundry.  I wake up and say "I know exactly what I need!  I need new socks to put on my feet!  I shall open up my sock drawer now!" and alas.  No socks are to be found.  Dirty laundry is to be found, but no socks.  (That whole scenario originally involved underpants, but I actually have plenty of underpants.  So if you were thinking about giving me a gift, socks would be better than underpants.  If enough people give me socks, I'll never have to wash the dirty ones.  You should buy me socks.) 

Half the time I find myself yelling "What do you mean I need money for that?  Give it to me!" or "Why are you standing in the hallway where I need to walk?" or "WHY IS THERE SO MUCH SHRUBBERY??"  There are no clear answers.  However, regardless of all my new-found responsibility, there is one other more pressing matter.

Some day to day occurrences are so mind-bogglingly awkward, I look up at the sky and whisper "whyyyyy?!" except I don't whisper very quietly and so most people stop and look at me and hope I don't have a knife on my person because I look like the kind of unstable psycho that might have a knife and use it irresponsibly.  Like for incorrect buttering.  Or stabbing.

Being unable to care for myself in even the most basic of fashions has led to an apparent inability to deal with normal occurrences with any degree of fortitude.  My awkwardness has increased about 3487 percent.  That's a rough estimate.

Naturally, I'm an awkward person.  It's one of the weapons that the Universe uses in its vendetta against my general health and well-being.  Recently, however, this has multiplied with my new level of responsibility to create my current method of dealing with life.  I am incapable of any kind of adult reaction.  This has led to very immature, anti-adult, reactions.  Such as stomping on inanimate objects.  Especially stairs.  I don't know why I do that.  Stairs don't care if I stomp on them.  In fact, that's more action than stairs have probably seen in a while.  Stairs are probably all "That's right, stomp harder!  Is that all you got, you little wuss?" and then stairs invert gravity for a moment and alter their molecular shape, causing me to fall.

Which brings me to point number one.

 Stairs that are either too short or too long for feet.

You probably know exactly what I'm talking about.  These stairs completely exacerbate my awkwardness. Stairs usually work like this:

Stairs, when properly designed, allow the user to walk comfortably downward or upward without much thought.  Any falling, tripping, or various methods of pain and death are direct results of the user's own physical failings, such as clumsiness or allergies.

Meet Stairs of Doom:

The above stairs are an example of perilous death.  These stairs are either a cruel joke or were built by people with extremely tiny feet and incredible balance.  These stairs cause you to topple down them mercilessly.  You will walk down them cautiously.  You will feel the slight pitch in gravity indicating your imminent fall.  You will brace yourself, and attempt to regain precious balance by flapping your arms uselessly and possibly uttering a grating shriek.  You will then hurtle to the ground.

When you are crumpled into a pathetic heap of shame and imbalance at the foot of the stairs, every bystander in the area will freeze for approximately three seconds before composing themselves enough to offer assistance.  You will pretend to be invisible.  It will become clear that you will be unable to pretend you are invisible.  You will raise your worthless carcass into a sitting position, mumble feebly that you are okay, and walk away as quickly as possible, registering the various bruises and abrasions now splashed across your elbows and knees.  You will hope that no one from the "stair incident" will ever see you in any other setting.  (Kind of like how I feel about Doug.  Doug works in the library.  Every time I see him, I wonder whether or not I should mention the fact that I almost ended his life on our first meeting.  I generally talk about it until things get awkward, which is immediately, and then I regret bringing it up.  Good times.)

Falling down these stairs will create a plethora of Dougs for your enjoyment.

Then there is this abomination:

These stairs are awkward and probably feel really insecure.  The steps themselves are very long, making the staircase stretch on into infinity.  When you use these stairs, you will not know how to walk.  Should you take two short steps on each stair, or you should you take extremely long steps and try not to faceplant?  Which will make you look less idiotic?  The answer: neither.  No matter what, you will look stupid.  These stairs were specifically designed to make you look as awkward and ridiculous as possible.  You will not descend with grace.  It's best to get it over with quickly.

Getting locked out.

Living in a dorm isn't all that bad for normal people.  You go to class, you shower in a stall, you return home and gossip with your roommate while watching various chick flicks.  For the regular, socially confident, not psychotic populace, it's a pretty good deal.  Then there's me.  My first week living in the dorms, I was locked out twice on accident after leaving my key inside the dorm, and then once due to my inability to perform simple functions like not lose my keys.  It didn't take long for every staff member who was even tenuously linked to keys to be able to recognize me on sight.

My mental well-being usually relies on the certainty that I am not burdening any strangers with my existence.  I have this guilt issue.  For example:  Last night I had a dream that I got hit by a semi-truck, damaging the truck in the process.  The driver got out of the car and yelled at me for ruining the truck and as I sat there on the street, I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt.  I felt guilty for causing minor damage to a semi-truck that had just flattened me.  Moments like these make me think I probably need to reevaluate my priorities.

Anyway.  The point is, I've been locked out a million times, and have to choose one of two options.  I either have to wait for my roommate to return, or go find someone with a master key to open the door for me.  I agonize over the decision, weighing the pros and cons, seeing only cons in both options, and finally I decide to find someone to open the door for me.  This always, without fail, leads to awkward conversation.  I live on the third floor.  The office is on the first floor.  I walk up seemingly endless flights of stairs next to someone who is as uncomfortable with making small talk as I am.

Me: ...........
Helpful Key Person: .......So.  Locked out, huh?
Me: Um.  Yep.
Helpful Key Person:  Yeah.  [Silence as we continue to climb the stairs.]  So.  Third floor?
Me: Uh huh.  Third floor.
Helpful Key Person:  Okay.  [More silence.  More stairs.]  It sure is a long walk to the third floor.
Me:  Yeah, the third floor is about three floors up, I think.
Helpful Key Person:  Yes I think that's about correct.
Me: ...............
Helpful Key Person: ................ 
Me: ...............[Still more stairs.  Finally, third floor hallway.  A long walk to my door.]
Helpful Key Person: Okay here we are.  [Opens door]
Me: Okay, um, thanks a lot.  [Worries for the rest of the night that Helpful Key Person hates me and I'll never be friends with Helpful Key Person and now the state of Utah is going to explode and it will be all my fault for losing my keys.]

Pants in general.

I often wonder what pants' problem is.  What the heck, pants?  Who invented you, anyway?  Why are you so annoying?  Especially jeans.  What kind of a person decided that jeans were a good idea?

Pain is fun!  Shimmying like a disabled lemur is awesome because it helps me get my pants on.

My favorite is when it takes twenty minutes.

The dreaded double-double door.

This is a double door:
 This is a double double door:

In theory, these doors aren't all that difficult to use.  You just walk through one set, then proceed through the next, and carry on your merry way.  This concept works very well until you throw in polite people.

Invariably, some kind-hearted soul will hold open the first set of doors.  "What a nice gesture!"  I think to myself as I carry on through the open door, saying "thank you!" loudly to Nice Guy.  Nice Guy then enters behind me, and we find ourselves at the second set of doors.  Having entered first, I am closer to the second set of doors than Nice Person.  I awkwardly reach for the handle.  Nice Guy awkwardly reaches for the handle, intent on continuing his kind deed of the day.  At this point, there's chivalry to think about.  Should I let Nice Guy hold open the door for me again?  If he does, do I mumble "Thank you" again?  Does the first "Thank you" carry over here, or should I ecstatically say it again?  Or should I hold the door open for Nice Guy?  What if Nice Guy expects me to?  What if he wants to be chivalrous, though?  What if opening the door tells him that I didn't appreciate the first door? WHAT IF NICE GUY DOESN'T LIKE ME ANYMORE?!

At this point my face usually betrays my inner turmoil.  99 times out of 100, Nice Guy is perfectly normal and simply holds the door open for me a second time, smiles politely, and walks away.  Nice Guy probably doesn't think about this at all as the day goes on.  I am not so lucky.

I usually end up knocking over a desk or something later though, so that gives me something else to agonize over.